


(whatever here that's left of me is yours) just as it was

by ashisfriendly



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Heist, Loss of Parent(s), Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Smut, mentions of abuse, mentions of violence (but ya don't see it because I'm a softy and didn't wanna), this was supposed to be about heist and tension but became an angst fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28019985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly
Summary: She wasn’t supposed to face this hiccup, not ever, because it wasn’t supposed to be possible.Because he said he was done and she said she would never quit.So he left her.ORLeslie and Ben met and fell in love while stealing valuables and secrets. When Ben wants to give it up for a real chance at a life together, Leslie can't fathom leaving the life she's already built. After three years since Ben left her, suddenly he's back for one more job.
Relationships: Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt
Comments: 13
Kudos: 36





	(whatever here that's left of me is yours) just as it was

**Author's Note:**

> I think the original prompt was something about Leslie and Ben needing to do a heist as a married couple and there was sexual tension? Maybe? Either way I blame Parks twitter for this entire monstrosity. And love them with all of my heart. Please read tags for parental loss and mentions of violence and abuse. Take care, lovelies!

The soft scent of vanilla and sugar mixing with flour and egg centers her. She can imagine it so clearly, feel the warmth of the kitchen oven and the cool tiles beneath her feet. There’s the sound of distant voices and Stevie Wonder or Al Green or the Supremes trickling in from the living room stereo. 

Saturday mornings. Childhood. Safety. Security. Before.

This is what she imagines when the impossibilities pile up. When the chips are falling and she can’t dig her way out of them. When she’s at a dead end, when she’s gone. Done.

Those Saturdays, the visceral mixture of senses, keep her grounded. They’ve been her rock since she first stepped out into a high school auditorium before a Model UN. They followed her to college and out into the world. First dates and job interviews and every February 12th. 

She tries to cling to it all now as she stares at the file in front of her, blinks and shifts her gaze from the papers to her boss. But there’s no sense to be made so how can she reach for the ground when the whole world is upside down?

“No,” she finally says, the word scratching at her throat as if it desperately has been trying to escape for years. 

Maybe it has.

“Knope,” Swanson says.

“No,” Leslie says again, stronger this time. The world is tilting back on its correct axis and the scent of vanilla is creeping in, she’s almost back on the ground.

Swanson stares at her, waiting. There’s a sigh, maybe an eye roll if he were a crueler man, waiting just beneath the surface. But he just waits, his patience thin, sure, but he saves it all for her, as usual.

“Please,” Leslie says, her voice falling again. She swallows and gathers her courage again. She’s not this weak, never this quiet or soft, not since -- “Anyone else can do this.”

It’s a lie.

“No they can’t.”

“Ron.”

Swanson blinks slowly, almost like he’s sorry. He might be, sometimes it’s hard to tell, and Leslie can’t tell which way is up, so being able to read Ron Swanson is off the table right now.

“Knope, you’re the right person for the job. An important job.” He runs his hand over his mouth, rubbing at his jaw before settling his arms down on his desk, leaning toward her. “A job you want.”

She does. She wants it, it’s designed for her, it’s important, and it’s going to be almost fucking impossible. Normally, she’d be craving it, her stomach growling for the challenge, mind already churning through the puzzle, fitting pieces that weren’t supposed to ever go together. Her blood would be pumping and she’d be fucking salivating. Skin buzzing, hair on fire, charged with the taste of capture. 

It’s there now, of course, tingling just below the surface, begging to be free. But she can’t let it go. There’s one huge barrier this time, one she thought disappeared years ago. Lifetimes ago. She wasn’t supposed to face this hiccup, not ever, because it wasn’t supposed to be possible.

Because he said he was done and she said she would never quit. 

So he left her.

//

Everyone knew everyone in this work. So when she met Ben Wyatt, she already _knew_ him. She’d heard rumblings of him, knew of his work because everyone would know who finished the job, either by a code or real name. It didn’t matter, in this world everyone knew both names, just to make it all that much more dangerous, maybe.

They were to work together on a big job. Usually a hit that would take more people to complete, but the confidence in both of them seemed to outweigh the bodies. It wasn’t the first time she’d been sent out with no expectations, underestimated, her blood boiling with determination. 

That’s what she felt when she knocked on Ben Wyatt’s door, the determination, the confidence, and the glow beneath her skin and tilt to her mouth. She smiled too much according to Swanson, but she didn’t care. 

“Hi, I’m Leslie--”

“Come in,” he said, hardly a glance at her, his nose down in paperwork as he walked back into his office. 

Leslie’s words caught in her throat, but she shook it off quickly, used to this. Everyone acted too busy in this industry, as if they couldn’t be bothered with pleasantries or the exchange of names. 

She walked in behind him, admiring his office. Sleek and clean, nothing personal on the walls save for a Star Wars poster behind his desk. It smelled like cinnamon and clove, which felt like a strange combination for an office. She wondered if it was from his skin and he simply spent too much time in here. 

Ben sat behind his desk and didn’t say anything, still looking over the papers. Leslie had the sense she was in a job interview or was in trouble with the principle. This wasn’t, she wasn’t, and the feeling of it all was starting to unsettle her. There was anger, too, just bubbling up, but it was an anger she often just shoved down. Everyone thought she was incompetent upon first meeting her, no matter what they knew, what they heard.

Leslie noticed a toy dinosaur sitting next to his closed laptop. She smiled.

“Your dinosaur is cute--”

“Can’t believe they only have the two of us on this.”

Leslie tilted her head.

“Oh?”

He didn’t answer, rifling through the assignment as if it was going to lead to any kind of solution. Leslie watched him, his brow furrowed and strong like the angle of his jaw. There was a muscle under his cheek that kept moving, a tightness to his shoulders and neck that she doubted had ever been relaxed. His hands were big, deceptively so considering he wasn’t exceptionally tall or wide, more lean muscle and angles than anything. His fingers shook slightly as he held onto the pages.

She continued to watch him in silence, following the movement of his eyes across the paper, the tremble of his fingers, that muscle in his jaw. It started to make her feel twitchy, begin a seed of doubt, one she had no business growing.

Leslie reached across his desk and grabbed the papers from his hand, tossing them behind her.

“The hell?” Ben said, blinking.

Then he looked at her, finally. Her breath caught in her throat as he scanned her, filing away the details of her, she was sure. Her eye color, the shape of her face and the color and wave of her hair. She could see the boxes being ticked off in his head as he catalogued every piece away. 

Finally, he smiled, something almost mean looking if it weren’t for the amusement in his eyes. 

“We’re not going to work well together,” he said, a laugh scratching the surface of his words.

“Well, that sucks,” Leslie said, “for you.”

//

The holidays are sprinkled everywhere as she walks through downtown. She wants to savour them, stand underneath the snow and smile at shop windows, marvel at the decorations on trees, the twinkling lights on houses. Instead, she just lets the cold envelope her, doesn’t tighten her scarf or pull her hat down over her head. She welcomes it, the frost, the sensation, the shivers. 

He has a new office now, Swanson told her it's in his home. His _new_ home. The idea of walking into his new house makes her throat tight. This is why she is walking through the cold, willing her body to feel everything, anything except the dread.

These used to be easier. Briefings, strategy meetings. Leslie and Ben are the best at what they do and their bosses hardly step on their toes, let them figure things out on their own. Not many in their profession get to work this way; with freedom.

It’s not common for different factions to work together, different companies to cohabitate, different bosses to put their competition aside and work together. But it was a big job and both Swanson and Wyatt knew it. 

“Wait -- I assumed you were Wyatt,” Leslie had said at their first meeting. 

“No, that’s my dad,” Ben said, dismissive and without pause or meaning, as if having a dad, let alone a dad who was your boss, was nothing. Then he was off, trying to plan their escape.

Leslie’s hands begin to shake as she turns the corner and starts down his street. He’s still blocks away, but the closeness is starting to unravel her nerves, despite opening her jacket to let in more cold, more bite, more feeling.

She stops a block from his house because she’s lost control of her breath and her entire body is shaking. Leslie has killed, stolen, been shot, and kidnapped and this is what is going to bring her to a boiling point, a downward spiral that has no bottom. Her breath forms in clouds in front of her, swirling with the light of streetlamps and the passing of cars. She tries, so desperately, to hang onto one thing to focus on, but it’s hard, impossible. 

Her coat is gone, on the ground, soaking up the moisture from the snow, but its departure is helping. She gulps down air like she’s drowning, desperately trying to feel the ground beneath her feet or search for that familiar smell of vanilla, the sounds of Motown, anything to ground her. She sticks to reality, holds onto the cold, the sound of a car alarm going off far away. She’ll be late, but she doesn’t care, as long as she shows up without breaking down.

So she takes her time. She takes deep breaths like Ann has been trying to teach her for years. She points out everything she sees, lists the smells, and feels each wisp of cold that touches her skin. She wipes her tears and clears her throat. She paces in front of two houses, one with a large Christmas tree in the window, the other dark. 

There’s still a shake to Leslie’s fingers as she picks up her jacket and shrugs it on, thankful it landed outside down. She finishes her walk, stopping in front of his house only long enough to confirm the address one last time before she ascends the stairs. His home is smaller than his last, still bare on the outside, no Christmas lights or wreath on the door. There isn’t even a rotting pumpkin on his stoop. 

On autopilot, she rings the doorbell. The locks on the door start clicking immediately and Leslie’s heart stops. 

He opens the door and he’s there, right in front of her, completely foreign and familiar, unchanged and different. Her throat closes and he exhales her name and a million things click into place at once.

It turns out Ann was right: Leslie never really processed that he was gone. 

//

Ben was right, they didn’t work well together.

That first assignment was lost, they failed. Their shoulders slumped as Donna drove them away. Ben ripped off his mask in a flurry of silent curses. There was blame to throw, but somehow they weren’t throwing it back and forth like she thought they would. Leslie put her face in her hands and went over everything again and again, torturing herself with the missed details and every mistake, the miscommunication and lack of trust. They put two alphas in the field and expected them to share and they couldn’t. 

Donna was kind enough to stay quiet. Ben was the first to contact his dad, letting him know they were coming back and that they had failed. Leslie watched his fingers tap on his phone waiting for a reply, the black screen illuminating and wanting a passcode with each tap. She watched the nervous bump of his finger, somehow it steadied her heartbeat.

It wasn’t that Leslie had never failed before. Everyone had, even the best, and Leslie was in a league above others, she was known for her agility, follow through, and dedication. 

“Let’s move on,” Swanson would always say after a failure briefing. 

He was better at it, of course. Leslie, however, loved to prod and poke at possibilities and play out every scenario she could. She’d agonize in the middle of the night as if it would turn back time so she’d have a file instead of a bullet wound or jewelry instead of dead bodies left behind. 

She was no stranger to failure. It happened.

Leslie and Ben sat with Wyatt and Swanson. They discussed what happened, possible witnesses or traces left behind. Ben was bleeding from a snagged wire on the rooftop which Ann was diligently and quietly mending. He winced every now and then and the recordings of the conversation were logged and saved and they were dismissed.

“Ben,” Wyatt said as they stood up and Leslie blinked, paused. She looked between Ben and his dad.

“You can go,” Ben said, low and whispered even though anyone in the small room could hear it. 

Swanson had taken a short pause in his steps, too, but then continued toward the door. Leslie hadn’t moved.

“What--”

“Go,” Ben said, louder and stronger. 

Swanson grabbed Leslie by the elbow and pulled her out of the room. She went just fine, but the reminder to keep moving was nice because she felt rooted to this moment for some reason. Whatever it was.

“What’s that about?” Leslie whispered to Swanson as they walked down the hallway.

“Family shit,” Swanson said.

“Oh.”

It would take four jobs together before Leslie would know what happened between Ben and his father after briefings. Four times Ben urged her to go even though she felt rooted, protective maybe, like something pulled at her to be near and watchful. For what, she wasn’t exactly sure, but for something important. Meaningful. 

For Ben.

//

The air bites at her neck and she notices a reddening to his cheeks start to form. He looks older, because of course he is, three years older now, almost 40. 

They don’t move for so long, and it should feel awkward and stilted, maybe even painful, but it just feels raw. LIke she’s exposed in the worst way and every inch of her is under a microscope, like her heart is being inspected and all the rot and pain is left ignored. She also soaks him in, investigates every inch of him, from his sock feet and tight jeans, the way his button up shirt looks wrinkled from the day and the top buttons are undone enough to show her the smooth skin and working muscles of his neck, his throat. There’s bags under his eyes, but he always looked like he was in need of sleep. He wears it well, just like his tousled hair.

They’re interrupted by a soft noise at Ben’s feet and he bends down and scoops up a small cat. Not a kitten, but a skinny black cat with a spot of white on its nose.

Ben has a cat.

“Come in,” he says, the trance ending.

She comes in and notices the small line of shoes and boots by the door. She starts untying her boots and the cat trots over, swatting at her laces.

Slowly, Leslie reaches out and lets the cat sniff her fingers and then smiles as the cat rams its head into her knuckles. Leslie complies with the request, petting the cat and scratching its fur as she takes off her second shoe. 

Ben returns, mumbling an apology and Leslie shakes her head, enjoying the pur that is vibrating against her fingers. 

“I made tea,” Ben says.

“Thank you.”

Leslie stands up and the cat weaves between her legs as she takes off her jacket, hanging it on the coat rack by the door. She follows Ben to the kitchen, taking stock of his home. As she assumed, it’s smaller than his last house, but still tidy and simple inside. There are minimalist Star Wars posters hanging on either side of his TV and his couch has more pillows on it than she remembers him having before, but they have all been turned over and lovingly deepened in the middle from a certain cat.

The kitchen isn’t updated but it’s nice and cute, definitely enough for him. Their mugs are the same shade of royal blue. 

He opens a cupboard and puts some sugar in front of her and plops the bottle of honey next to it before handing her a spoon. She smiles at him, all tight and lacking warmth, in thanks.

After she makes up her tea, he grabs his mug and motions for her to follow, taking her down a narrow hallway. They pass a bathroom and a closed door before stepping into his dimly lit office. The scent of cinnamon and clove hangs in the air and Leslie’s heart twists and her gut drops in memory.

“Is it okay if I close the door?” Ben asks and Leslie snaps out of her descent, sloshing scolding tea over her fingers. “Tom Bombadil won't bother us.”

“Tom Bombadil?” Leslie asks, sure no one else was supposed to be meeting with them.

Ben’s cheeks redden again.

“The… cat.”

“Oh!” Leslie nods a lot as if it’ll shake the awkwardness of it all. It doesn’t. “Yeah, sure.”

“He, um.” Ben clears his throat, shutting the door and moving to sit down behind his desk, but he just stands, his fingers lightly pressed against the wood. “He came with the house. Was here when I got here and never left.”

“Oh,” Leslie says, waiting, nodding some more.

Ben clears his throat and sits down finally and Leslie follows, folding her hands on her lap with all the stiff formality of a job interview. He stares at his own hands, still perched on the desk, but he finally looks up at her, eyes soft and deep as always. 

Leslie’s throat tightens under his stare and she wants to both run and leap over the desk into his arms. She wants to scream at him and slap him in the face, but kiss his soft mouth to remember the feeling of his lips against hers. She’s coming undone, nerve endings untying and each seam of her soul ripping apart. A lump forms in her chest and travels upward, the tears stinging her eyes.

There’s a faint shake of Ben’s head and his lip trembles as his brow softens, his voice soft with a hint of pleading as he says, “It’s good to see you.”

“Fuck you,” Leslie chokes.

//

It was a humid summer night in New York. Leslie was swatting her hand in front of her face as a man smoking a cigarette walked by when the door opened behind her and she turned to face him.

Ben stopped, eyes widening at the sight of her. His lip was bleeding.

“Ben,” Leslie sighed, feet moving before she could stop them. She had her suspicions. It wasn’t uncommon, it wasn’t shocking, and yet it hurt.

“I have to go home,” he said.

Leslie followed him, silent, willing herself not to blurt out that she was sorry, that she could take a look at it, that she should’ve stayed every night they failed, maybe on the nights they succeeded, too. 

He let her follow him. He left his door open and she closed it. He wordlessly put a beer out for her, too, as he popped open and took a pull of his own, wincing when he put the bottle down. He splashed his mouth with water at the kitchen sink and Leslie bit her lips closed to stop herself from insisting he clean it properly. Something purple was forming under his eye, too.

His nose always had a small imperfection to it, one she told herself she didn’t absolutely adore. Now she wondered.

Ben shed his tie, his button up shirt, and pulled the belt from their loops around his waist. His house was always clean but he left them on a dining room chair and walked to the couch, leaving room for her on the other side as he turned on the TV. He played a random Star Trek episode, or at least random to her, it could mean something to him. 

The episode finished and another started and neither of them had spoken a word. Empty bottles sat on the coffee table and Leslie’s fingers itched to do something, her throat begging to let the words out. Questions, stories. Anything.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Leslie finally said, hoping it was the right thing.

“No.”

“I’m sorry that I… I didn’t let you lead and I cost us.” This was new for them. They didn’t apologize, not really, both harboring blame for failed assignments, letting them fester. Leslie hated admitting failure, but she wasn’t sure why Ben kept it in since he could really be an asshole and it seemed right up his alley to let her have it. He never did. “I… I just thought I had a clearing and I definitely didn’t.” She sighed. “I’m sorry.”

More silence. Ben’s fingers trembled as he rubbing a spot on his knee. He scratched his jaw next, as if his fingers just needed the friction.

“It’s okay,” Ben said, voice scratched with lack of use. His lip turned up in a deprecating smile. “I have a laundry list of mistakes to apologize for to you.” His head fell back on the couch, turning to face her in a lazy sway. “If you’re interested.”

Leslie smiled and her cheeks felt hot. The way he was looking at her was almost too casual, affectionate. 

His eyes trailed over her face, softening, almost a rich chocolate color instead of his usual night sky. Leslie looked down at her hands that were pushing together, fingernails plucking at her cuticles. 

“Well if you’re offering.”

Ben laughed, a soft throaty chuckle in his chest.

“I miscalculated Luchen’s gullibility on the Hanson assignment. I’m sorry. The alarms in the hotel during the Psycitz assignment were on even though I said they weren’t, because my information was bad. I’m sorry.”

Leslie watched him rattle on about each job they botched, and some where they succeeded, even easily, as if every assignment had an undercurrent of failure. Not from her, just him. 

Is this what his father had told him? Is this what it was like to listen to Wyatt after each job, after she and Swanson left the room? Is this what it was like to play baseball when he was in high school? What it was like to bring a spelling test home?

“Stop,” Leslie, stretching a hand out toward him. Her fingers were an inch from his face against the back of the couch and his eyes closed briefly. Did he think she was going to touch him? “It’s okay.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Ben said after a minute or two of silence. 

“It is kind of a big deal,” Leslie insisted, fire starting low in her belly. 

“Leslie--”

“He’s your father.”

“Well, he’s also my boss.” Ben blinked and whatever soft intimacy that was growing was gone. “Bosses don’t give a shit.”

“But fathers should,” Leslie said.

“Most of us do this within our families,” Ben said. The words hurt, like a swing to the gut, but she knew he didn’t mean it the way she took it. He couldn’t; he didn’t know. Ben stood and rounded the couch toward the kitchen. Leslie followed. “It’s the way it is.” There was a bitter spit to his words that hurt her, but she pressed forward.

“Well,” she started, flustered. Ben popped open another beer and placed one on the counter if she wanted it. “It’s not right.”

“Okay,” Ben laughed. “We’re criminals, Leslie, nothing we do is right. Don’t be so obtuse.”

Leslie’s jaw dropped. She racked her brain for something to say, but came up empty. Ben tipped his beer toward her in mock cheers and took a swig. She watched him open the fridge again, then the freezer. He pulled out a box of Eggo waffles, throwing them on the counter. He opened the fridge again and placed a can of whipped cream on the counter. 

“It’s not JJ’s, but Eggo is good, right? Who doesn’t like Eggo waffles?” Ben was talking to himself. He picked up the whipped cream, examining it and then nodding to himself. “It’s still good.” He pulled a toaster out from a lower cabinet and plugged it in. “I can also make eggs.”

“What are you doing?”

“I also have strawberries.”

“Ben.”

“I might have more frozen fruit, I can thaw it--”

Leslie grabbed Ben’s arm and tried to pull him toward her but he was solid so she moved herself in front of him, placing herself between him and the counter. His eyes snapped down to her, focusing in on her as if he was somewhere else before.

“What are you doing?” Leslie asked. 

“Moving on,” Ben said. Leslie tilted her head and was about to ask him to clarify when he kept going. “Apologizing.”

“Making me feel better?” Leslie asked, teasing.

Ben’s eyes softened again. There was that chocolate color. She wanted to chase it. Drink it up like the warmest, sweetest cup of hot cocoa at Christmas time. Ben was mostly a mystery to her, but she got glimpses every now and then, little peaks behind the curtain. He was grumpy and short, mean and observant. Smart and loved to be right, hated to make a mistake, celebrated success with small, quick smiles. But the shortness made him direct in a way she envied, she liked that he knew everything, like her love for waffles and whipped cream with berries, all because he was always paying attention, making mental notes that were only for him.

But he was hurt, unsatisfied, fighting something all the time that she still didn’t quite understand or hadn’t figured out. She wanted to ask him, but she liked where they were right now, his body almost pressing hers into the counter, frozen waffles on the counter and the promise of sugar on her tongue.

“Is it working?” Ben asked.

It was. In the way that she was starting to understand that he needed to feel better. A distraction.

“Yeah.”

Ben booped her nose before turning to grab the box of waffles.

“Good.”

//

Silence drains on between them, sucks the energy right out of the room, leaving them deflated and empty. Leslie has no other fight in her, apparently, those two words taking it out of her entirely. Ben stared at her for minutes, maybe hours, before turning to the paper work as if it held answers. Now he is sitting, eyes unseeing on his desk. His shoulders rise and fall with his breaths. There’s a soft meow on the other side of his office door. 

“Do you want waffles?” Ben asks, not looking up.

“We haven’t talked about the assignment. We haven’t--”

“Come on. Tom Bombadil is waiting for you.”

Ben makes waffles as she sits on the floor with Tom, petting him and pushing tears back as the purs vibrate against her hand. Ben returns with warm golden waffles, not the frozen kind he first fed her, but from a batter and waffle maker.

He sits on the floor with his own comfort food, a box of Cheez-Its and a Pepsi. Leslie takes a dollop of whipped cream on her finger and sucks it off as Ben pops the can of Pepsi open. They eat in silence, Leslie licking most of the whipped cream from her finger in slow bites. Tom Bombadil steals a lick of whipped cream from the side of her plate as she finally eats the strawberries and then the waffle which has gone cold but is still delicious.

“What happened,” Leslie whispers, placing her plate down, not meeting his eyes.

“My dad died.”

Leslie’s breath catches.

“He was dying and he asked me to keep it going. Come back. Just until he was done. Gone.” Ben swallows, tapping the now empty can of Pepsi with his thumb. “He gave me easy shit. Nothing too crazy. Then this job. I got it a few days ago. He died on Monday.”

Two days ago.

“I…” Leslie tries, but she can’t. She’s sorry, but she’s not. She’s heartbroken for him, but she’s not. He lost his father, but he was abusive and tore Ben’s soul from his body, and she helped him put it back together.

Then he left. He told her he was done with this, he wanted a normal life and a family and Leslie was too scared to walk away so he left her. 

Only to come back because the rotting corpse of his father asked him to. Because he’d come back for his family, no matter how terrible, but not for her. 

“He told me it was with you,” he says and Leslie looks up. “So I said yes. One more.”

“One more?” Leslie whispers.

Ben nods. “One more chance.”

“Chance for what?” she asks, but she knows, her gut swirls with the knowing, her heart lifting, calling to her, even though she tries to silence it.

“For you,” Ben says, reaching and brushing his thumb over the apple of her cheek. It’s wet. When did she start crying? “My wildflower.”

//

“I’ll take her,” he said.

Ann nodded and Leslie shook her head. Then, Ann and Ben shared a look and the decision making was done. Ben was helping her stand and when she leaned into him, exhaustion weighing her down more than her injury, he scooped her up. 

Ben was built like a sports car, all lean and angular with strength and power under the hood. He hardly even breathed harder with the weight of her in his arms, his muscles secure and sturdy under her knees, along her back. It always surprised her, his strength. It shouldn’t, but it did. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, snuggling into his chest and she felt the inhale throughout his entire body. His grip tightened and he whispered along her hair.

“Let’s get you home.”

Home was, apparently, his house. He went straight up the stairs and into his room, placing her on his bed. He disappeared and Leslie almost fell asleep except he was back with a glass of water and painkillers Ann had sent her off with. She missed Ann. They’d both been so busy lately.

She patted the bed, her pants, looking for her phone.

“Phone?” Leslie asked.

Ben pulled it from his pocket and Leslie unlocked it while Ben handed her pills. She sent off a text to Ann, arranging for a brunch as she swallowed the pills. She hit send and Ben helped her back down on the bed and said he’d be back, but she was asleep as soon as he left.

Waking up was hard and came in waves. First she was aware of the wound along her ribs, then the scent of cinnamon and clove on the pillow beneath her head. She felt the muscles in her body heavy with sleep, craving and begging for rest. Sunlight smoothed over her closed eyelids in a faint orange glow that she blinked away, resulting in the soft and blurry surroundings of Ben’s bedroom. 

She started to move, but her ribs roared for her to stop, so she did, wincing and staying still on her back. She took steadying breaths and turned her head toward the warmth beside her. 

Ben.

He was curled up in the blankets up to his mouth, his nose peeking out of the cocoon of blankets, hair wild on his pillow. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and she had the urge to reach over and smooth it out with her thumb. 

Leslie did reach for him, he was close to her. Her hand slid under the blanket toward him until her fingers brushed his that were curled underneath his chin. His thumb moved first, a soft push against her hand and then rubbing soft along her fingers. She could see his eyes moving under his eyelids and his brow softened before he blinked his eyes open. 

They were chocolate brown and full of sleep, almost still far away in a dream. He focused in on her slowly while his hand slipped away from the blanket, from his chin, and wrapped around hers. 

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her fingers.

“Hi,” she said. 

His voice was rough with sleep, his smile lazy and cute. “No more getting hurt.”

She laughed, it hurt, but she tried not to show it.

“I can’t lose you.”

She squinted at him, confused. She waited for him to take it back, but he didn’t, even as he became more awake.

“You’re not losing me,” she finally said, but her voice wasn’t so sure. 

“I should brush my teeth,” he said, but only scooted closer to her, unwrapping from his blanket burrito as he moved. Leslie continued to look at him, confused, her heart beating fast and every piece of her skin aflame.

“Okay?” she laughed, confused. It hurt again.

“Don’t want to get up,” he said, almost dreamy, incredibly soft.

His hand let go of hers and found her thigh. Leslie gasped.

“I want to kiss you,” he said and Leslie stopped breathing completely. “Can I?”

He waited for her, unmoving, until she finally nodded.

The soft push of his lips was barely there and all encompassing. She inhaled and it stung her ribs, but the pain seeped into her body and mingled with the pleasure, the sunlight coursing through and it was perfect.

//

Leslie sniffs and pushes his hand away, standing so fast it scares Tom Bombadil. Ben’s shoulders fall and he looks down at the spot on the floor where she was once sitting. 

The war within her rages. She wants to leave, she wants to burn his house down, she wants to push past this, forget his words and just get to work. Plan their assignment, arrange a meeting place and time for a week from now. 

She used to be able to push past these moments. Before. Leslie was practiced at ignoring the way he stared at her for so long before the morning he kissed her. She became an expert at saying nothing about the way he used to dream up their life together with picket fences and back to school nights and lazy Sunday mornings that weren’t made to nurse injuries. 

She pretended not to see the disappointment in his eyes when another assignment came in, how he would hold her before each one as if they wouldn’t make it out alive and he wanted to savour her. Cherish their life together. 

Leslie is good at so many things, takes pride in her skill, her job, her life of criminality because it also meant she was helping. She did the impossible.

“Anything is possible, little one,” her father would tell her, even as his voice started to shake and he was hardly awake anymore. “You can do the impossible.”

Would her father be proud of her? She does the impossible all the time, obtains secrets and valuables and treasures. She’s the reason leaders have been unseated and assassinations have been stopped. 

She did that.

He did that.

They did that.

“I’ll see you in a week,” she says, begging the tears to stop. 

“Leslie,” Ben begs.

“No.” Silence stretches. He doesn’t look at her before she says, “I’ll pick you up in a car and we’ll go together. You can email me if you have any ideas beyond the brief. I’m fine with it. Seems pretty simple.”

“It’s not,” Ben croaks and she's not sure if he’s talking about the job or something else. Either way, he’s right.

“Bye.”

She turns and leaves and he gives her a gift of silence, of not going after her, letting her shut the door behind her, alone. She cries on the walk, finally gets an Uber and cries in the backseat, the driver’s eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror. 

She knocks loud and Ann is half asleep when she answers the door, but scoops Leslie up just the same. 

“It’s okay,” she whispers and Leslie shakes her head.

She hasn’t really cried over Ben, not in the years since they’ve been apart, but the last few hours have been the adjustment to the absence. She sobs on Ann as Ann holds her and sniffs when Ann makes hot chocolate and her throat hurts and jaw shakes as they watch Friends. 

It isn’t until the sun is almost coming up and Ann is handing Leslie a cup of coffee that she asks what happened.

Leslie blinks into her sugary coffee, made exactly how she likes except there’s no whipped cream. She didn't want it. 

What happened.

Leslie’s head swims with exhaustion and memory. She’s dizzy with the reflections of the first few days of them, together. Ben’s hands were always on her and Leslie was always smiling. He whistled when he cooked and Leslie never wore pants. She played with his hair and told him about her family and Ben nodded, jaw tight with everything unsaid about his. What was there to share, really? His family had been doing this for generations and Ben was just the next piece in a well oiled machine. 

So where she showed him pictures of her family and made birthday cards with her boxes of craft materials, Ben showed her his favorite movies and read her Star Wars novelizations while they sat in bed, her heart finding rhythm with his steady words. He taught her how to make the perfect omelette and she stocked his fridge and pantry with all the Leslie Knope essentials. 

He got skittish a year in, his voice bitter and fingers desperate and slow on her body. He wanted to run away, he told her many times. She’d laugh and kiss away the hurt on his face until she forgot about it, until she could easily pretend he was just kidding.

Because this was her life. She hadn't felt like she was where she was supposed to be until she had her first job, then her second cemented it all. Swanson was her family as much as her father was, buried in the warm earth. 

Ben fell into this life and wanted out, Leslie found it and never wanted to leave.

“He came back,” Leslie says, her throat raw. Ann nods, patient, even though she knows he’s returned. “For his dad.”

Ann’s hand clutches Leslie’s free one and Leslie swallows, swallows, swallows so the tears don’t come. 

“And for me,” Leslie admits, tears falling again. She looks at Ann whose eyes are tired, but unwavering. Unsurprised. Leslie tries again. “He said his dad was dying and needed him and Ben was… he was going to placate him until he died. But then this assignment came.”

“With you,” Ann says, as if the puzzle pieces are right in front of her.

Leslie nods, but a spark is igniting in her chest. Why isn’t Ann mad or shocked? Confused? “So he’s here.”

“For you,” Ann supplies and Leslie is thankful she doesn’t have to say it again but she wants to shake Ann. 

Isn’t this crazy? Isn’t he a jerk? Isn’t he absolutely idiotic to think she’d go with him now? After everything? After she said she was never going to leave?

Leslie swipes at her wet cheeks. “He’s an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“He is being ridiculous, Ann!” Leslie stands. “He doesn’t even want to do this.”

“No.”

“He might even botch the assignment.” She’s pacing now. “What does he even mean? For me? He had me, Ann.”

“He did.”

“He left me. He made that choice, right?” Leslie bends into herself and lets out a frustrated cry, not loud but full of emotion as if her insides are being scooped out. “He left me. I loved him and he left me.”

Her breaths come fast and short and Ann pulls her down and pushes her head between her knees, reminding her to breathe. They sit like that until Leslie feels her insides untangling and the fog in her mind clears. She’s wavering as she sits up, sleep begging to take over. Ann hugs her and presses the button on the remote to let Netflix know they’re still watching Friends. It’s muted and Leslie looks at the TV, unseeing.

“Leslie,” Ann whispers, her hand tightening in Leslie’s. “Ben left because he couldn’t -- and wouldn’t -- make you do anything you didn’t want to. He loved you too much. Loves. I don’t know.”

Leslie blinks and turns to Ann.

“What?”

“He came to me before he left,” Ann says. Leslie’s eyes widen. “He wanted to know if you would ever leave. I told him no.”

“What--”

“Ben,” Ann says, sighing, “would light himself on fire if that’s what you wanted. You told him you weren’t leaving and he couldn’t stay so he let you have the life you want.”

Leslie covers her face, pulling her knees up so she can plant her forehead on them.

“But he’s here. For me,” Leslie says against her palms.

She feels Ann move next to her. Maybe a shrug.

“He’s here. For you,” Ann repeats. “And I think… Leslie, I think he stayed in this longer than he would’ve without you. He stayed for you, he left for you, and he’s back for you.”

Leslie turns her head toward Ann, resting her temple on her knees. Ann pouts a little before wrapping her arms around Leslie, squeezing.

She remembers their first meeting, their first assignment. They didn’t work well together. Eventually, that wasn’t true anymore, eventually they could speak to each other without opening their mouths, she would know where he was in a dark room just because she could feel him as if he was an extension of herself. And then the cracks started to form, she started to ignore the expiration dates swimming in front of her. Maybe they couldn’t work well together.

But, if that were true, how come she couldn’t work well alone anymore? Why have the last three years been hollow, like she’s been scooped out and left to survive in a barren wasteland void of brownie eyes and cinnamon? 

Maybe she’s broken, like a clock that races back and forth between the past and the future, unable to even be right two times a day. Not once in the last three years. 

//

It was their first summer together when she started to notice.

Their relationship bloomed with the spring. After Ben kissed her, it was like he never stopped. They never stopped. They tumbled in bed and through the days, weeks, months, finding any excuse to touch and falling asleep to each other’s words and kisses. 

It was blissful, something so much better than she’d ever had before. Before Ben, there were men who only stayed for a few dates before they disappeared because Leslie never called them back.

She could never tell these men what she did, who she was, so what was the point of going past a third date? They’d kiss her and sometimes Leslie would let them have sex with her, and she’d dream a little, but not enough.

They were never enough.

Not like Ben, who understood every tiny detail of her life. The intimacy of their work wove its way through the depths of their relationship, as if it was their third partner who they both loved dearly. Just as much as each other.

Until Ben fell out of love with it.

He let her handle assignment prep and debriefs, sitting quietly at a table while she told Swanson and Wyatt what happened while they were stealing documents or money. He’d be quiet on the way home and not really come alive again until after he showered, his pajama pants low on his hips and hair wet and messy.

Then he’d devour her. Snag her from her contemplation in front of the open freezer, wondering which ice cream to eat, and place her on the counter so he could eat her instead. He’d snuggle her in the morning, wrapping his legs with her and holding her close, whispering how they should stay in bed and fuck the day away.

They would sit at a small cafe table, enjoying the soft breeze before the awful high humidity rolled in and ate brunch. Ben liked to pull her seat close to his and she would giggle as he kept a teasing hand on her thigh, sometimes pushing higher to the waistband of her jeans, tracing her skin along the denim. Between bites of his omelette he would show her homes for sale in a nearby suburb.

Sometimes over dinner of greasy pizza straight from the box, he’d hand her his phone, a teaching job posting on the screen. She wouldn’t know what to say as her eyes floated over the screen, filtering in a few words like years of experience or school names. Ben got his degree in mathematics, the one deal he struck with his dad that Wyatt accepted, before he started working for him. He kept dropping hints that he could teach. It kept reminding her of her father.

They kept side stepping it, instead burying their heads in the work that Ben was starting to loathe and discarding clothes and finding lips in skin to keep from thinking of it all. Of whatever was happening between them.

“What if we got married?” Ben asked one morning as the autumn breezes started to roll in. It was supposed to rain that morning but hadn’t yet. “Make an honest man out of me.”

Leslie giggled, a knot forming in her stomach that untangled as his lips found her neck, her shoulders, her collarbone. 

“Are you -- ah -- asking?”

Ben’s teeth grazed the soft flesh of her breast.

“Just brainstorming.”

His lips pursed and he planted small kisses along her breast and onto the other one before his hand moved up, up, cupping her before his mouth wrapped around her nipple, sucking gently.

“Well,” Leslie sighed, her body squirming, electricity starting to hum along her skin, “there are no bad ideas in a brainstorm.”

He chuckled before moving down, down, down, each inch accompanied by a wet kiss. He stepped off the bed and pulled her by the back of the knees until her ass was at the edge of the mattress. He dropped to his knees and left a kiss on each of hers, running his hands roughly up and down her thighs. She turned into fire, his touch just enough, because he touched with so much precision and purpose, every move dripping with dedication. 

“I do want to marry you, you know,” Ben said, each word peppered with kisses on her inner thighs. 

“Oh?” she asked, heat pooling. 

Marriage was never supposed to happen for her, but the possibility was here. And she wanted it.

Ben nuzzled her, this soft movement of his face against her that was somehow sweet and filthy all at once. It wasn’t a new move, he loved to be buried down there as if it was his own personal sanctuary. Leslie gasped and rolled her hips, trying to urge him on. She was never patient enough for him, her boyfriend who was good at hacking computers and stealing data and loved to savour her. 

“I want to be yours,” he said, a hint of pleading along his lips before he pressed them to her cunt, tongue already devouring her.

Leslie gasped and her back arched, her hands reaching for his hair, but he grabbed them first and pressed them down on the mattress, holding her down.

“Yours,” he said again, the word pulsing through her, twisting and embedding into her bones and seeping into her bloodstream. “Forever.”

//

She doesn’t look at him as he gets in the car. The ride is silent for so long, the air thick with avoidance. She can smell him, the same cinnamon and clove that she remembers. It envelopes the car and wraps around her skin and her lungs beg to breathe it in, to take a deep inhale and collapse in this backseat.

He never did email her, the brief is now their only blueprint for the night. The assignment is complicated, security is tight and the crowd will be thick. She has no doubt that where they need to go will be guarded, that there may be death tonight. 

They’re a block or two away and Leslie straightens up, pulling her bag over her shoulder. It’s a slim, sparkly thing that glints in the streetlight. Her dress is long and red, cut off along her shoulders and beneath her collarbone with long sleeves. Simple, despite its color. Swanson is usually against flashy colors, but the simple silhouette was enough to convince him otherwise. Her shoes are tall and squeeze her toes.

“I’m sorry you have to wear those,” he said on an assignment similar to this one. 

“Just proves I’m that much better at this than you,” she quipped, bumping his shoulder with hers. 

He smiled, looking down before finding her gaze again.

“I’d never imply otherwise.”

The car comes to a stop, but they’re waiting for their turn to be dropped off. There are a few cars ahead of them. She smooths the fabric along her thighs for something to do.

Ben grabs her left hand. Pulls it up to his face, his thumb pushing against the band.

“It’s not real,” she says.

Ben nods. 

“Do you like it?”

Leslie looks at the ring, her fake wedding ring. They’re married tonight. Mr. and Mrs. Lawrey. Her name is Jessica Lawrey. Her husband is Michael Lawrey. They’re philanthropists. From old money. Old money from where? Who knows. It doesn’t matter. 

“No.”

Ben looks to her, his thumb still over the ring. It pushes the gem, making the band twist along her finger. 

“Too flashy. It weighs too much and it isn’t even real, so.”

Ben nods. She watches a muscle in his jaw move and then his lips move and she’s worried he’s going to kiss her knuckles. 

He places her hand down and digs in his pocket, pulling a simple gold band from it. He slides it on his finger.

And then it’s their turn to get out.

Leslie’s brain turns on with her polite smile as they walk up the steps. She’s observing the faces and staff, already making note of how many people she sees in dark suits and large ear pieces. More than she’d like, but definitely not more than she expected. Ben’s hand is on the small of her back and they’re moving up and checking in, checking IDs. They’re given a table number and they both grab glasses of wine as they walk into the ballroom. 

She’s working and so is he, drifting. She’s mingling a little, slipping people casual hellos if they start a conversation, making sure to make a joke with someone’s wife, flirt a little with a husband, but not enough to be too memorable. She’s good at this part, the schmoozing. Ben hates it, but where he lacks in this he makes up for in observations and details. He’s flowing through the crowd and returning to her, with smiles and hors d‘oeuvres. He whispers in her ear about exits and men watching doors they need to enter. She smiles and leans into him as if he’s complimenting her or sharing a joke. 

They mingle some more and enjoy dinner. She got the chicken and he got the fish. They bid too low at the silent auction, disguising their handwriting. They’re working and it’s familiar and easy, actually. It shocks her in its ease. She uses the bathroom and washes her hands, staring at herself in the mirror as she does so. She’s actually going to do this. She’s going to complete a job with Ben Wyatt and it will be over. They’ll have the latest intelligence on the election to deliver and he’ll be gone.

Her eyes stare back at her through the mirror, a little clouded in their focus. Her brows are drawn together in the smallest shift and her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink that isn’t aided by her blush. Her lips are red and she thinks to apply another coat of lipstick but her hands sake. She grips the counter and holds on.

“Leslie?”

She blinks at herself in the mirror, steadying her breathing. Ben’s in her ear. How long has she been in here?

“Bathroom,” she whispers. She’s not sure if she’s alone in here, the only focus she’s had for the last -- however long she’s been in here -- only on herself.

She spent the last week avoiding thinking about this, them, as if she got it out on Ann’s couch and left it there as she went about her grocery store trips and brunch with her mom. Every time she wondered if he was burying his father that day, she pushed it out of her mind. But he got in the car and his smell engulfed her and the fake wedding ring was a distraction. The job was a distraction. There were obstacles, but they weren’t impossible. They would finish this, she was sure of it. She was already feeling the relief, undeserved.

“Are you ok?”

She watches herself blink. He says it again and she nods as if he can see her. 

“Leslie.”

“Coming.”

She holds onto the counter for as long as she can and when her hand finds the corner of the marble, she stops and looks back at her face. 

The pink is still there on her cheeks. She looks down at her hand and watches the ring flash in the light of the bathroom as she moves her fingers. 

Could she be a wife? She thought about it with Ben, of course, it was hard not to, especially as his mouth would move along her skin and whisper sweet nothings before disappearing under the sheets. She remembers her mother and what she was like as a wife. She was young, she only remembers glimpses, small peeks she didn’t quite understand like rubbing her father’s shoulders as he graded papers and surprising him with his favorite meal from KFC when he was tired and grouchy. They would kiss in the living room and Leslie remembers bothering them when they were cuddling on the couch past her bedtime. They were happy.

Is she happy? Happy enough with heists?

Ben is around the corner when she exits the bathroom and there’s a flash of worry across his face before his entire body is flooded with relief. He is quick to rearrange his face, square his shoulders, and stand up straight, blinking it all away. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, accepting his arm.

“The music’s started so let’s have a dance or two and then go,” Ben says into her ear and she smiles, leaning into him, masking their conversation as nothing more than a lover’s exchange. “Two men, not bad, but I really don’t want to take them out. Maybe something less lethal.” Leslie leans her head back and takes a step closer to him and his lips brush her earlobe and she gasps.

She nods. Ben’s grip on her tightens and he takes her to the dance floor. It’s not too crowded, this group obviously less into dancing and more into drinking. Leslie would have another glass of wine if it was wise.

“Do you think anyone’s inside?” Leslie asks after Ben pulls her into his body, swaying. 

“Maybe,” Ben answers, his hand smoothing around her lower back, his other hand holding hers, pressing it between them.

Leslie lets her fingers slip to the skin of his neck and press into the flesh there. She feels his breathing quicken and craves the reaction, slipping her touch to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. As if he craves it, too, he leans down, rubbing his nose into her hair.

As the music goes on and their bodies move, reacting to each other’s touch, Leslie’s head swirls with dreams and what ifs. She misses him, she hasn’t let a day go by where she doesn’t think of him. Sometimes she finds a t-shirt of his in the back of a drawer and pulls it on even though it doesn't smell like him anymore. Sometimes she wakes up and her bed is cold. Sometimes she wishes he was there to make chicken soup. Sometimes she falls asleep to Star Trek. 

It hurt, all of it. All the remembering and the desperate ways she clung to him or pretended like he was still there. It smashed her heart and ripped her apart. But, it was easier than accepting the truth.

She inhales as his lips find her ear again, this time pressing and on purpose. She swallows and speaks at the same time his whisper falls against the shell of her ear.

“I hate you.”

“You look beautiful.”

She laughs, her stomach flipping, sinking. The fingers on her lower back press into her, almost hurting.

“Leslie.”

“Forget I said anything.”

Ben pulls back, voice loud. “Leslie, I--”

“Shhh,” she warns.

He moves forward, dropping his forehead to hers. They keep swaying to the music, Leslie loving the familiar way he’s just a bit off beat somehow, even in the slow sway of the music and their bodies.

She lowers her gaze, focusing on the small black buttons on his shirt. His nose nudges hers but she doesn’t look up. 

“Leslie,” he says again.

“You killed me,” she whispers. He doesn’t say anything but there’s a soft intake of breath and his fingers hold on tighter to her hand before releasing them and his hand joining his other on the small of her back. He pulls her closer, their bodies flush. “You wanted to walk away because you were afraid of losing me, of, of… killing me. Well, you did.”

She looks up at him and now his eyes are gone, closed, the dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. He pulls back just a little, just enough for her to see his brow knitted together in pain.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Leslie’s free hand slides up his chest and pushes around to the back of his neck, reaching just enough to bury in his hair. He sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” Ben says.

“You came back for your dad, but not for me.”

Ben’s eyes open now and they’re pleading. Not here, they say, not now. 

“I wasn’t… I… I tried. I asked you to leave with me and you said no. I know this is your life. I’m -- I let you have it.” His hands move up her back and down again, roaming her hips as if trying to memorize her. They slip up her sides and around to her back again. “He asked me to come back, I was going to dissolve until this.”

“You think I would change my mind?”

Ben laughs, bitter and sad. “Maybe I hoped. Fuck, I hoped.”

They are silent, the music swelling in the absence of their confessions. She listens and sways, her mind wandering back to the job, trying to memorize different moves and the push and pull of bodies and flesh to take a man down. Ben’s hands are still roaming her in soft, slow sweeps and it clears her head even more. The music, Ben’s pulse beneath her thumb, and his hands rubbing along her body. 

“One more song,” Ben says and Leslie nods once against his shoulder.

His voice echoes in her ear. One more song. Her heart starts to pound in her chest, so hard she feels it in her arms and in the pit of her stomach as it churns and churns and churns. Her fingers tighten around his neck, holding him close. He bends so he can bury his face in her neck and she tilts her head to grant him more access to the sensitive flesh there and -- oh God -- he takes the invitation and kisses her. Soft, sweet things that leave a trail of heat in their wake. His tongue flattens under her jaw and her knees buckle, making his teeth flash against her skin and his hands tighten on her back, holding her up.

Her body flames and her voice shakes as he kisses her jaw.

“When this is done?” she asks.

“Hm?” he hums, planting one kiss on her neck before pulling away enough to hear her. His breath is warm and fast along her clavicle. She sighs, trying to repeat herself but he speaks first. “God, I wish I could feel more of your skin.”

She moans, a lewd sound that won’t be heard by anyone but him in this crowded room. Unhinged, Ben places both thumbs on either side of the bottom of her jaw and pushes up. A chandelier shines above them. Ben sucks on the front of her throat before peppering kisses along the underside of her jaw.

Her hands leave his neck and find his biceps, squeezing, pushing. She smiles to mask the desperate pool in her stomach. Her body is buzzing with want and her heart clenches, missing him. As if she’s had a taste, a true memory of what she used to have, and it’s swimming all over her, begging.

His hands are steady on her waist and she holds onto his shoulders, their swaying almost at a standstill.

“And after this? When this is done?” she asks.

Ben swallows and licks his swollen lips.

“I’m dissolving. Like I planned.”

Her heart pounds again, the panic settling in. The familiar ache of him leaving pushes forward, like muscle memory. She almost wants to yell his name as he walks away from her, but he’s not leaving. Not yet. Her hands slide to the lapels of his jacket and she grips, knuckles turning white.

There’s a long note playing as the song ends. 

“I’ll go first,” Ben says, pulling her hands off his lapels. She’s nodding as he brings one hand up to his lips, kissing her knuckles, the light shining against the ring on her finger. “We’ll do it like we did the Anderson job, ok?”

“Ben,” Leslie begs.

“Okay?” he asks again, his voice shaken.

“Okay,” she says, blinking.

He leaves. She turns, takes a breath, and counts.

//

“Ben, please.”

“I can make it easier if you want.”

“Ben.”

“I loathe you, Leslie Barbara Knope. You’re the worst, my wildflower.”

“No, Ben, it’s not funny.”

“I know. I know. I know.”

“Just, please. I…”

“I can’t. Leslie, I’m sorry.”

“But we’re a team.”

“I’ll make… I’ll make it easy, okay?”

“Ben, no.”

“I would never want to marry you. Build a family with you. I… fuck, I can’t. I’m--”

“No--”

“Bye, Leslie.”

“Ben, don’t.”

“I’m going now.”

“Ben!”

“Ben!”

“Ben.”

//

By the time she’s done with her count and walking through the lobby and up the stairs, she can see he’s taken care of each of the guards. She hurries past, knowing that the moment those bodies hit the floor, the clock is officially running. She takes a turn and then another and she’s entering the room. A body is sprawled on the floor and Ben is behind a computer, gloves on his hands and a forming bruise on his jaw. Leslie shuts the door, glancing at the clock. 

“Maybe this was a one man job,” she says, surveying the room. Could they escape through the window?

“I just want it to be over.”

The knot is back in her throat and the pit weighs heavy in her stomach. Alarm bells ring in her head, warning her that he’s leaving, that this is almost done. A cruel deja vu in the middle of this nondescript office alone with the love of her life and an unconscious body.

“I don’t,” Leslie says.

Ben’s gaze flicks to her over the computer monitor for only a moment before he goes back to work. He swears under his breath. This is the part where she would give him a time call. Maybe two minutes left. He must be working through a protected server. It’d be smart, but you’d be surprised how many things they’ve taken that were so easily accessible.

“Fucking less than a minute,” Ben mumbles to himself after a moment. 

Leslie’s heart is racing and her hands itch to hold him to lock this door and make a home within these walls to keep him trapped. To cause hysteria in the ballroom that makes them have to hide in the air ducts or on the roof and grow old together among the air conditioning units. 

She clasps her mouth closed and bites down on her lips, her hands clasped together tight, keeping her rooted. She’s not helping, but this part was always Ben’s expertise. She watches the clock and he gets through firewalls and decodes. 

“We should get married,” she says just as their time is up.

Ben’s fingers stop moving and she watches every muscle in his body tighten even more, as if the stress of uncovering communications and files isn’t enough to constrict them to their limit. A beat passes, charged and quick, and he goes back to work. 

“Don’t,” he says and the taped together pieces of her heart start to give way to the poor construction.

She swallows and scolds herself for doing this now, but what time does she even have left?

“Negative two minutes,” she says and he nods, focusing back on his work.

“Almost there.”

There’s chatter on a walkie talkie that’s on the body on the floor. Leslie springs away from the door and rounds to the front of the computer just as the screen switches to black.

“Let’s go,” Ben says, pulling a drive out from the computer as it powers down. It won’t turn on again, not that it would need to, there’s nothing on it. 

“Ben.”

“We have to go,” he urges and he’s right.

She grabs his hand and they go through a door she hadn’t noticed and around a corner and another until there’s a back stairwell. It’s going so smoothly that of course an alarm sounds as Ben pushes open the stairway door.

“Fuck.” 

“It’s okay, run.”

They do, slipping down steps and leaping down, her mind getting dizzy as they descend. At the exit door is Donna in a car waiting and there’s a shout as the car door shuts behind Leslie and Donna speeds off.

“Couldn’t cut it any closer?” Donna asks turning and getting onto the highway.

They sit in silence until the car stops in front of Swanson’s. Ben throws the drive onto the desk and Swanson nods his thanks.

“Three injured, nothing serious and no casualties. Went too well, though, I would watch out for footage or something to pop up. I didn’t see anything, but I’m not counting it out.”

Swanson nods again. Leslie stands there lamely.

They all stand there, waiting. Ron finally clears his throat, taking the drive off the table. 

“Anything else?’

“No,” Leslie and Ben say together. 

“Thank you,” Swanson says, but his eyes linger on Ben in something of a goodbye.

Then Ben’s gone.

Panic sets in, first in her toes that are pinched and hurting. It creeps up her legs and threatens to buckle her knees, but she stays upright, glued to her spot. Her stomach swirls with it and extends to her arms and hollows out her chest and short circuits her brain. She’s not sure if she’s breathing, if she’s floating, or has turned into stone. Reality is a little shaky and unknown.

The only thing she knows is she’s losing something, like her heart is being detached, chest hollow and black. Leslie makes a feeble attempt to ground herself, just a flicker of search for vanilla until she lets it go in favor of the spiral. Being left, disappearing, alone, alone, alone.

“Leslie.”

Swanson’s voice is an echo. She sees him, sure, but he’s moving slow or not at all, she can’t tell. His voice is far away, taken away by the vibrations of panic. He keeps saying her name and it’s helping, a little, to keep her mind present, but her body is frozen, not hers. 

“What’s happening?” Leslie squeaks out. 

Swanson looks at his hands and then at her, as if he wishes he didn’t have to see this, or it was paining him to do so. She isn’t sure. 

“Sit down, damnit,” Swanson says, more stern this time. “Don’t faint, please, I’m not calling Ann tonight.”

“Ann.”

She remembers what Ann has taught her. She thinks of the Sunday morning kitchen dates with her father. Cold feet on the kitchen floor, sugar, vanilla, the heat from the oven keeping her just warm enough. Her father’s singing. 

She manages to hold onto the chair and sit down, placing her head between her knees. Breathes.

What’s happened to her? She’s an absolute mess, a husk of what she used to be. She’s been navigating her life through a fog, as if half her soul is somewhere else, wandering and lost. There’s some parts of her still intact, pushing her through to give Ann gifts for each holiday they celebrate, make Sunday brunch with her mom, steal, kill, repeat. It feels wrong to have been changed by him, and hollowed out by his absence. 

“I’ll go, I’m fine,” Leslie manages to whisper, throat tight, but her mind less fogged and lungs finally accepting air. 

“Need me to get Donna?” Swanson asks, voice weary but only just a bit, only just enough for Leslie to notice.

“No, it’s okay, I’ll walk. Take a cab if my feet start to hurt.”

“Walk? It’s freezing.”

“I need the air.”

“Fine,” Swanson says, as if he’s remembering not to care. “Nice work tonight, Leslie.”

“Thank you,” Leslie says, forcing a smile. 

“You’ll be okay,” he says, and she pauses, her hand on the doorknob. “It’ll be okay.”

She leaves.

The cold is welcome and awakening. It helps her focus, the breeze on her neck nipping enough to keep her walking, one foot in front of the other. She won’t last long in these shoes, but she’ll go for as long as she can.

Her throat tightens and the tears begin to spill a block in and she clutches her phone, the ringing blaring in her ear.

“Leslie? Are you all right?”

A sob escapes at the sound of her mother’s concerned voice, so when she says, “I’m fine,” it’s hardly convincing.

“Leslie. Where are you? Are you okay? It’s two in the morning.”

“I’m going home.”

“Oh, okay, are you hurt?” There’s sounds of movement and rustling. She’s woken her mom up, but she feels small and helpless, like she’s a child who only needs her mother.

“I’m… I’m broken.” She cries harder, trying to bite each sob back, but it only makes her hiccup.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m… I can’t… I don’t know.” Leslie stops to take a deep breath, staring up at the dark sky. “I think I’m broken.”

“Leslie--”

“I’m a mess, mom.” She reaches a corner and stops, holding onto the stop sign pole for support. The cold metal is grounding, even as her thoughts swirl and jumble in her head. “Nothing makes sense, I feel like… I feel like I’m not even me. Like, like, like, I don’t know, like my soul has been scooped out.”

“Oh, Leslie.”

Leslie groans, pushing her tears angrily from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “No, I don’t know. I’m fine, just--”

“Leslie, it's okay to be not fine.”

“No it’s not, mom, not over him.”

There’s a pause, as if her words are reverberating off the city streets and echoing in her head. Marlene doesn’t say anything and neither does Leslie, tears just falling because there’s nowhere for them to go, her throat tight and hoarse. Apparently she’s been yelling. 

Leslie starts walking again, her phone pressed to her ear. Her mom is quiet, there’s a few taps and shuffling on the other side. Maybe she’s making a drink or fixing a snack. Leslie’s toes pinch in her shoes, a blister surely forming on her heel.

“Leslie,” Marlene starts. She sighs, but there’s a smile to it, a nostalgia. “You love freely, easily, and hard as hell. I am not surprised that you are changed after him. Ben.”

Her breaths have calmed and the static fog has cleared in her head, as she tries again. “No, it’s not just him, he’s -- it’s -- I’m… everything is messed up, I’m messed up.”

Another long pause and Leslie stops, unable to walk anymore. She’s finally level headed enough to realize she needs a car. She tells her mom to hold on as she flicks her phone and calls an Uber. Five minutes.

Her gut twists, but she squares her shoulders and quickly pulls the phone back to her ear. 

“I saw him tonight.”

“Ah,” Marlene says, and there’s a beep like from a microwave. “And?”

“Mom! And I’m obviously freaking out.”

Marlene laughs empathetically. “Oh, my baby. You act like you’re the first person to see the love of their life and fall apart.”

“He’s not--”

“Hush, dear, I know what I’m talking about. I’m very wise, if you recall.”

Leslie smiles and it is almost enough to pull some relief from her chest.

Marlene clears her throat. “You’re not broken. You’re not a mess. You’re just Robert Knope’s daughter.”

Leslie bites her lips closed and swallows, swallows, swallows as she looks up at the sky. She takes a steadying breath and closes her eyes.

“Your dad loved everything with his entire being and when they were ripped from him, he couldn’t handle it. From the last bite of the disgusting top of our freezer wedding cake to every pair of shoes you grew out of. And I saw you go through it, too. When little Marcie moved away or when you graduated high school. Dear, you were in your bed for weeks after your graduation party.”

Leslie’s smile is tight, memories flooding back to her. 

“It’s always like that for you, at least as I’ve seen it. You may not stay in bed for weeks after you lose something, after life moves on from you, but it sticks to you.” A beat passes over the phone and Leslie considers saying something, but Marlene speaks first. “As you got older, a little bit of me snuck in and you pretended to move on or not even digest your losses anymore, because life is too harsh and it’s easier to pretend. But they’re still there. I see it.”

A car pulls up and Leslie gets in with a silent nod to the driver. Soft music plays, something from a Top 40 station.

“Mom,” Leslie says, and she hopes it holds all the gratitude she feels. She wipes her eyes before the driver can see, as if they haven’t seen their fair share of breakdowns at 2AM in the back of their car. “What do I do?”

Another dragging silence as the car bumps along the calm city streets.

“Whatever you need to do. Your father would suggest ice cream.”

“Smart,” Leslie says, trying to think if there’s any in her freezer.

There’s a smile in Marlene’s voice, something whimsical and hardly common for her, when she says, “he was.”

Their conversation wraps up with sniffles and words of love. Leslie sits back in her seat until she gets home, eyes too tired to stay open, mind too jumbled to sleep.

Her house echoes in its loneliness. Every sound, from the door shutting behind her and her heels on the floor, vibrates in her ears. She takes deep breaths as she undresses in her bathroom, leans against the wall as she showers, and lathers her hair with extra care. She uses the fancy body scrub and her cupcake smelling lotion. 

Her body is lagging, every muscle crying in exhaustion, begging for sleep. But she goes to her kitchen, sighing at the sink full of dishes, and pours herself a glass of wine. She grabs an envelope from the stack of mail on the counter and flips it over, reaching for a pen that’s discarded by the stove and begins to write.

It’s a list, short and jumbled with half ideas. She’s writing other careers, meal plans, exercise plans, a lot of things she’ll never do, but feel good to write anyway. She’s filled the envelope and starts writing on the sides in small letters when there’s a knock at her door.

She stills, waits. It sounded like a knock but maybe she heard wrong. Who would be knocking at her door at almost four in the morning?

She considers grabbing her gun when the next knock happens. It’s louder, more taps than the last one. She takes a knife instead and walks toward the door, heart racing, but mind clearing at the threat. As if she’s on a job and it’s all she has to focus on.

Another knock on her way, weaker this time. She pushes on her tiptoes when she reaches the door, holding her breath as she looks through the peephole. 

Her heart stops and she’s frozen, clutching the knife so hard in her hand that her nails are digging into her palm around the handle. She takes a breath and has the sense, thank God, to put the knife down on the small table by her front door for keys and mail and, apparently, weapons. 

She looks down at herself, all fuzzy slippers and sweatpants with a hole in the knee and an oversized Pawnee Porpoises hoodie. She sighs and her hand shakes as she opens the door.

Ben is alive, ravenous with life in front of her. He ran here, his cheeks and nose red, breath forming in cold puffs in front of his open mouth as he tries to catch his breath. He pulls the beanie off his head, his hair wild. He also wears a sweatshirt and a pair of tight black joggers that show off his calves and narrow waist.

It never occurred to her before that he could just show up here. He never did. After. He did many times, before, of course, surprising her with take out or flowers, pushing through her door and finding her lips before he could shove a bag of candy into her hands. 

She thought he was gone when he left her, not just in another part of the city in a new home with a new life, not too far at all.

“Ben,” she says on an exhale. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he breathes before swallowing and taking the AirPods out of his ears, pocketing them.

“Oh.”

They stand there, she’s not sure for how long. It could be seconds or hours. She watches him breathe, watches the bead of sweat that’s formed along his brow and falls past his ear and along his neck. She feels the chill start to creep into her feet and trace up to her ankles. He licks his lips, chest heaving slower and slower as his breathing starts to even. He’s watching her, too, she can see it in the way his eyes roam over her face, down her body, the small crook to his lips when he sees her alligator slippers. She can feel it, too, of course, his eyes, his glare, the way he digests her with a look. She’s always known that feeling, since they first met, but the calculations behind his eyes have changed over time.

This time, she’s not sure what’s happening there.

“Can I come in?” he asks, breaking whatever spell they are under.

“Of course, sorry, yes, please.” 

Leslie moves aside and he comes in, taking his shoes off before walking toward her kitchen, asking if he can have a glass of water.

“Yeah, the glasses are--”

“I know where they are.” He opens the cupboard where the glasses used to be, only to find an assortment of bowls and plates. “Or not.”

Leslie passes him and opens the glasses’ new home and hands him one.

“I, uh, rearranged. A few times. Tried to change things up.”

Tried to forget him, a time before him, in any way she could. 

“Thank you,” Ben says, getting ice and water from the freezer door. He likes cubed ice. The beeps echo along with the clatter of ice against glass. 

He takes a long pull of the water, his throat bobbing with each swallow, the muscles and veins in his neck coming to life as he drinks. Leslie looks away when he brings the cup down and smooths a hand over his mouth. 

“I’m sorry I--” Ben stops himself, taking a deep breath and trying again. “Sorry for barging in on you. I saw the light on.”

“Do you run by here a lot?” There’s a bite to her question. It’s unintentional. Maybe.

“No,” Ben says. “No, never.”

There’s a beat, just long enough for her to grip the edge of the counter and gather the strength to ask her next question.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Leslie--”

“You’ve been living ten minutes away, running in the neighborhood -- taking assignments? You said you were done.”

“I was done. I am done.”

“Bullshit, Ben.” Leslie runs her hands through her hair, starting to pace. “I was just getting over you.” It’s a lie, but something sinister feels good in trying to hurt him.

Ben scoffs, placing the cup down. “Lucky you.”

“Excuse me?”

Ben, a small light of fire sparking in those dark eyes, tilts his chin up. “I said, lucky you. Glad you can get over me.”

“Are you kidding me right now? You left me.”

“I wanted a life for us, Leslie. Do you think I want to be doing this bullshit forever? I want kids and shit, the whole fucking thing. You know that. I told you that.” He points at her for emphasis and then retracts his hands as if he knows he’s being too aggressive. He breathes and crosses his arms. His voice falls a little, low and hurt. “You wouldn’t be with me like I needed you to be with me.”

The wind gets knocked out of her and she has to take a step back. “Why can you only love me one way? Conditionally.” Her throat starts to scratch with the beginning of tears.

“Leslie, no, wait, first of all I didn’t say I didn’t love you. I just, ugh.” He rolls his head back, frustrated, and catches sight of her wine glass. “Is that wine?”

“Yes,” Leslie says, confused.

“May I?”

Leslie shrugs and Ben drinks the entire glass in one gulp.

Ben works his jaw and leans on the counter, his hands bracing himself, shoulders up to his ears before he pushes back off. He paces once and rounds the island, walking closer to her, but stops before he’d be close enough to touch her. 

Leslie wipes the tears that have fallen without her permission, shocked she has any left for him.

“Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe.” Ben laughs unkindly, something reminiscent of his self deprecating jokes that she misses swatting his arm over. “I am… well. Anyway. Sorry. Fuck!” 

Ben groans and steps back from her.

“You can kiss me,” Leslie whispers.

Ben’s eyes are wide when they snap to hers. Leslie’s heart is thudding against her ribcage, roaring in her ears. It’s an old saying between them. Ben would always lament how he didn’t know how to tell her things sometimes, his feelings, his frustrations. He’d take it out on her lips, express himself along the column of her throat or with his tongue against hers. Once he joked that if they ever got married, his vows would be a 30 minute make out session. She remembers the flutter in her stomach at the very thought of being married to him.

“Leslie,” he says, almost like a warning and a plea harmonizing together.

She’s crying fully now, her voice shaking. “I don’t know, Ben. I have no answers. I don’t know why I’m scared to leave, or why I can’t just give it up for you. I, I, I wrote a list of possible careers and all of them require going back to school. I could hate them. I don’t know.” 

Ben takes a step closer to her. He could touch her, but he doesn’t.

“I want to, I think. Because I’m a wreck without you.”

Ben does touch her now, wiping tears from her cheeks as more just keep falling.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore. I feel like I have no life in me, like a failure. Weak. Stupid. A body without a soul in it, no heart, maybe. The fucking tinman.”

Ben smiles, cupping her face, thumbs working over time to brush over the apples of her cheeks to keep the tears at bay. She sniffs.

“I thought I was fine, but then you were back, and I realized that I wasn’t fine, I wasn’t even human.”

Leslie leans into his touch, their bodies coming together, chest to chest, feet bumping and stepping into place. She hasn’t looked up at him really, but watching his chest rise and fall is helping her get through whatever it is she’s saying.

Her hands creep to his waist and she grips, inhaling the spice of his scent, sweat and like crisp winter wind.

“You left,” she says and Ben tucks her hair, still a little damp, behind her ear. “You left and you took something with you.” He kisses her cheek, and then the other. “I don’t know what, my heart, my brain, my soul, all of it. Me.”

Ben leans back before slowly, slowly, pressing his forehead to hers. Their bodies are moving slightly, swaying in a soft rhythm that Ben has created to try to calm her. It’s working, but she also feels half asleep, like she’s cried, talked, and lived too much and needs to nap.

“I’m sorry,” Ben says, and their noses brush and Leslie closes her eyes, rocks with him, grips his sweatshirt that she only now realizes she was holding onto. “I’m sorry.”

“Mm,” she hums and Ben leans down to kiss her cheek again.

“I’m sorry,” he says and kisses the other cheek. “I’m sorry.” Her nose. “I’m sorry.” Her forehead. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Finally, her lips.

She melts against him, even as his mouth hardly pushes against hers. It’s soft, but the warmth that seeps into her is a rush, traveling through each limb and buzzing into her heart, leaving a small trace of flame along each finger that grips his clothes. It’s a quick kiss, but he doesn’t pull away, only lifts his lips from hers, their foreheads still touching, noses bumping.

His hands slide to her neck, thumbs pushing up on the underside of her jaw so her head tilts and she will look at him. Finally look at him, take in the angles of his face and the soft pleading in his eyes, his hair is still a mess, now falling a little, and she misses the feel of it between her fingers, and how in the world is she still crying?

“I’m so tired, Ben,” she blurts out, laughing. Ben laughs, too. 

“I know,” he says. “Me, too.”

Ben leans down and Leslie prepares for another kiss, but she’s being lifted. She squeals and Ben holds her close, carrying her down the hallway to her room.

“Is this still your room?” he asks, Leslie’s nose nuzzling into his neck. 

She hums as an answer and he walks into her bedroom and places her carefully next to her bed. 

“You okay?” Ben whispers, kissing her lips quick, before his fingers grab the bottom of her sweatshirt.

Leslie nods and lifts her arms. He pulls the sweatshirt off and she hears him curse at the reveal. She isn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Jesus, Leslie, a little warning,” he teases, but his teeth catch on her shoulder with the kiss he leaves there.

She sighs and lets him take off her sweatpants and then gently pushes her down to sit onto the bed so he can pull her slippers and pants off. She leans forward and pulls at his pants.

“You, too.”

“I’m all sweaty--”

“Don’t care.”

Ben laughs and helps Leslie lay back before taking off his own sweatshirt, shirt, and pants and climbing into bed next to her. Leslie’s eyes are half open as she reaches for him and he hums, sliding in next to her, pulling her close. He presses her back into his chest and quickly tangles their legs and Leslie wills herself not to cry.

It turns out, the tears aren’t hard to keep away, because sleep comes first.

Her sleep isn’t deep, but it feels long in its waves. She can smell Ben in her bed for the first time in years and her body craves the memories it brings. She dreams he’s making her breakfast or kissing her or laughing in her bed and the images mix with reality. His mess of hair, the soft breath against her neck, fingers along her hips and stomach. 

She’s not sure when, sometime after the soft grey light of morning starts sneaking into her room, somewhere out of the depths of sleep, her body starts to come alive against his. Ben’s fingers are warm on her hip, splayed wide and overwhelming along her skin. 

Ben is so compact but he packs a punch in his hands. They have a habit of taking over her body, engulfing her waist, enveloping her thighs, anchoring her from his touch along her lower back. 

His chest is flush against her back, legs still tangled together with hers, face pressed in the tangles of her hair. She is aware of every point of her skin touching his, enraptured by every small movement of his fingers pressing into her skin, the push of his chest with each breath against her back. Her eyes are still closed, the warmth of sleep holding onto her, when her body just starts to move.

It’s an automatic response. Her blood rushes a little faster, her nerve endings humming with the soft friction. Ben hums behind her, deep in his throat. He moves, too, little pushes of his hips against her ass, fingers slipping under her underwear so he can touch the skin against her hip bone. Leslie keeps her eyes closed, focusing on the touch, the friction, the movement. It’s slow and sleepy, incredibly lazy and soft. 

Ben hums behind her, his face pushing into her hair, nuzzling slowly down to her neck for him to leave sloppy kisses along the tip of her spine. She sighs, finally moving her hand, reaching behind her so she can slide her fingers through his hair.

A growl falls from his lips and he nips at her skin. He grinds against her harder and she lets out a sharp inhale.

“Leslie,” Ben says. His voice is groggy with sleep and there’s a drawl that almost makes him sound like he’s dreaming. “I love you so much.”

Leslie moans, arching her back so she can grind back on him and his hand leaves her hip, slowly sliding up her stomach. They move against each other, soft breaths filling the morning air of her room, small moans leaving her throat when his hand engulfs her breast or his lips suck on her neck. He just repeats her name like if he says it enough it’ll cement her in his life, forever.

“I missed you,” he confesses, pulling away just enough to turn her on her back. 

She finally blinks her eyes open, watching him climb on top of her. She opens her legs to welcome him. He’s a disheveled mess of sleep and happiness and Leslie can’t believe she didn’t have this for three years.

“I missed you,” Leslie says as he kisses her forehead, her cheeks. The kisses are soft and slow at first and then he speeds up, tickling under her chin and along her ear lobes. She giggles, actually giggles, for the first time in years. It feels like the first time ever. “Ben,” she squeals. 

Ben pulls away and his smile is lazy but his half open eyes are so bright. He pushes his hips down and she can feel him, every inch of him against her and she hisses and sighs, arching her back just as he rolls his hips again. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his smile fading.

Before she can say anything, he disappears, leaving kisses on her neck, biting the line of her collarbone. He sucks the skin along her chest, licks over her breasts and groans as he takes a nipple into his mouth. Leslie’s hands thread into his hair, fingers pulling and pushing him closer. He laps and sucks and kisses at her tits, mumbling curse words and lamenting about missing her as he goes. He moves from one breast to the other, making sure his hand is keeping attention on the other.

Leslie feels like she’s in some sort of fever dream, a reality she never thought she could have again. The pieces inside her that were empty and dead are filling and filling and filling. She’s coming alive and it’s like a garden is blooming along her skin, finally watered and bathed in the sunlight it had been craving. 

Ben looks at her like she’s the sun, but maybe she’s the one who is feeding off his light and needs him to tend to her, to fill her out, and keep her growing. 

He descends down her body and she calls for him, her voice shaking with the promise of tears.

“Leslie?” he asks, rising from a kiss he’s left at her belly.

“I want to kiss you,” she says, putting a hand over her eyes as if she won’t cry if she hides. She takes a deep breath and feels him crawling back up her body quickly. “I love you, Ben.”

He pulls her hands from her eyes and wipes her tears before holding her face in his hands and kisses her.

She doesn’t even have the capacity to worry about how she might taste or how her lips may be dry, because he breathes life into her with his lips. He holds her steady, nudging her nose so he can move just enough to push her chin down with his thumb and slide his tongue into her mouth.

He feels somehow soft and strong against her, following her tentative movements and encouraging her. Leslie sighs like she’s finally taken a good breath of fresh air and he smiles, their teeth bumping. They both laugh through small kisses until his hands tighten along her jaw and he steadies them both enough to kiss her deeper, searing, and life altering.

She finally springs to life under him, hands greedy as they roam his hair and his back. She misses this back, taut and strong, muscles rippling as he moves over her. He groans into her mouth and lines his tongue along her bottom lip before biting her there. She whines, something desperate, and he grinds against her, his kisses turning needy and sloppy. Leslie pushes against his chest to turn him over, but he grabs her wrists and pins them down.

“Wait.”

No, no, no. He’s leaving, he’s leaving, he’s leaving.

He quickly kisses her and Leslie’s heart whiplashes.

“Just.. give me a minute,” Ben says, lips red and swollen as the corner of his mouth lazily tilts up. He pushes his nose against hers. “My wildflower. So impatient.”

Leslie finally breathes again, a small laugh caught in her chest, a flutter in her stomach. Ben kisses her jaw and then the side of her neck.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ben whispers and Leslie shivers. He sucks on her skin then moves down to her chest. “I’m yours.”

“Ben,” Leslie whines, refusing to cry again. 

His teeth scrape a nipple and then he keeps going down, down, down, until his fingers slip into the sides of her underwear and he pulls them off. He crawls back on the bed and sits up on his knees, staring down at her. 

“Good Lord, Leslie.” 

He shakes his head, disbelieving. He rubs at his jaw with one hand before both of them cover her thighs, spreading her legs. His fingers are hot and strong on her skin, almost aching. Leslie bucks her hips and it’s like he snaps, growling, before he devours her. 

She remembers this, of course, she remembers the way he laps and sucks at her, how his tongue always reaches impossible depths inside her cunt, how he’s so precise and detail oriented in everything he does, but when he goes down on her he becomes an unhinged animal. But, he used to tease her, toy her open with his lips, his fingers, his tongue, before he let himself go. Not this time, this time he goes in as if he’d already been exploring her, like a desperate mess of lips and tongue. 

He groans and holds her thighs open. It’s so much, too much, and she tries to wiggle away and grind against his face, but Ben moves one hand to her lower stomach and holds her down and she has no choice but to _take_. 

She thinks she’s saying his name or a string of curse words, pleases and yeses between breaths, but she’s unsure. She’s not sure which direction is up or where she is or what time it is, only the feeling of Ben’s mouth working, radiating a coiling heat through her body. He’s talking and groaning and every sound he makes is so deep it sends a vibration along her bones, her muscles, her heart.

Her hands itch to touch him so she reaches down and pulls his hair, pushes him against her and he somehow gets closer, deeper, hand leaving her stomach so he can grip under her ass and pull her closer. She cries out and he hums against her and slowly, so slowly, gets softer with his ministrations. She whines and she can feel the smile that plays along his lips between swipes of his tongue. Her limbs shake before she deflates onto the bed, her growing orgasm slipping away.

Ben kisses each thigh and Leslie covers her face, trying to regain any semblance of regular breathing. He crawls over her and she peeks through her fingers in time to watch him swipe at his mouth with the back of his hand. He pulls her hands away so he can kiss her and she tastes herself on his tongue and she chases it so she can feel a bit like an animal, too.

She pushes and he pulls and she finally gets to straddle his lap, which is deliciously bare underneath her. She’s not sure when he took off his underwear, but she’s not inclined to care when she can slide over his length and moan as she arches her back. His hands slide all over her torso, taking moments to squeeze her hips and her tits, fingers trailing delicate touches over her throat and nails biting along her rib cage. 

“Condom?” Ben growls.

“I’m -- ah -- I’m, I’m… I haven’t -- and the pill.”

“You haven’t what?” Ben says, but his hands move to her hips, helping her glide over his dick, thumb pressing so hard into her hipbone she can’t wait to see the bruises. 

“I haven’t been with anyone else.” 

“Fuck,” Ben says, throwing his head back before he moves again so their eyes lock. “Me either.” He holds her hips and rolls his just so and Leslie helps with the angle so he notches along her opening. “I’m yours.”

Leslie sinks onto him and they moan together. She falls forward and kisses him, his hands pushing into her hair as they roll their hips. She bites his lip and he growls, moving a hand to her ass to help her move faster. Their noses bump and lips keep missing in favor of fast breaths, so she pushes herself up and rides him.

She relishes in the way he fits inside her, how it’s all so familiar and brand new, how he hits those spots she remembers, how every movement beneath her is like nostalgia. He’s groaning and her name is spilling from his lips like hot honey and she let’s every drop burn into her skin and nest inside her soul. 

She arches her back just enough to feel the friction against her clit and she moves faster, chasing the orgasm that’s traveling along her burning thighs and into her center. Ben takes her tits in his hands and plays with her nipples, just how he used to and the familiarity and the exact rightness of it all helps her climb higher and higher until she’s absolutely still and feeling everything all at once.

A silent scream claws at her throat and she clenches and shakes. Ben takes over, holding and rolling her hips for her to ride out her orgasm until she collapses. She’s whining and limp in his arms as he coos and tells her how beautiful she is, moving them both until he’s sitting up against the headboard and their chests are flush together and he can hold her face in his hands as he kisses her. 

She slowly begins to rock again, her body unable to stop craving him no matter how tired she is. Ben helps her along, grabbing her ass again as he groans into her mouth, bouncing her on his cock while he thrusts into her. She takes it, her head falling on his shoulder as he tells her he loves her. 

Leslie turns her face into his neck and nuzzles there, kissing and licking along the sweat slicked skin. He moves faster, more erratic, pulling moans and whines out of her that are desperate and needy for him.

“Ben,” she says, feeling him so deep like he’s right in her throat. “Ben, Ben, Ben.”

“Leslie,” he chokes.

Faster, faster, and then he empties inside her, her name on his lips. 

They breathe and still shift against each other, him hissing and her laughing, teasing him with small shakes of her ass as he slowly softens inside her. He finally bites her neck and pulls her off of him, tossing her aside. She falls to the bed on her back, giggling, light and happy. 

Ben rolls away and disappears inside her bathroom, the door softly shutting behind him. Leslie stares at the ceiling, waiting. She’s sore and hot, content and light. It’s foreign, a feeling she hasn’t had for what feels like eternity, but she welcomes it back with open arms. His words, his love for her, how he is hers, how he isn’t leaving wash over her and she bathes in them, closing her eyes and believing them, collecting each syllable and putting them away. Safe.

Ben opens the door and she looks over at him, marveling at the muscles along his stomach, his arms, how his waist narrows and his thighs are thick. He’s mostly torso and thick thighs and lean muscle and all hers. 

He rounds the bed and grabs her hands, pulling her up until she’s standing in front of him. He kisses her nose and pulls her by the hand like he used to, until she’s walking toward the bathroom.

He lets her go and she closes the bathroom door behind her and takes care of business, and sloshes mouthwash in her mouth as she washes her hands. She climbs back into bed and Ben is quick to grab her and intertwine their limbs and press their bodies together. 

His eyes are hardly open but his mouth finds any skin it can. She snuggles into him and giggles, and his laugh engulfs her entire heart. 

Eventually, they find stillness and quiet and she is heavy with sleep. Ben is breathing deep and even next to her and sleep is reaching for her. Ben’s arms tighten around her and his voice is heavy with sleep.

“Am staying. Forever.”

Leslie smiles. “No matter what?”

“As long as you’ll have me,” he says.

“And what will we do? Where will we live?”

Ben shrugs and nuzzles her nose until their mouths connect in the softest of kisses, his next words playing along her lips.

“Does it matter? As long as we’re together?”

A tear rolls out from her closed eyes.

No, she supposes, it doesn’t matter at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/endmebensolo)!


End file.
